Visitation
by Scarlett Burns
Summary: Alternate Beginnings story. What if the presence of an alien race was felt by humans before Superman ever arrived on the scene? Would Clark Kent ever be able to become Superman, or would he be forced to hide forever?
1. Chapter 1

**Visitation  
**_Lois & Clark Fan Fiction_  
By Scarlett Burns

Author's Notes:

This is an alternate beginnings story. I asked myself two questions: what if there was an alien presence as Clark grew up, and how would that affect his life? I set it in the time of the Pilot, and this story is the result! I hope you enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 1

Sliding his wire-frame glasses on with a shaky hand, sweat beaded on his forehead, and he forced a calming breath into his lungs.

He knew better than to take his glasses off, to let his guard down, to lose his focus and delicate balance of control.

Control.

He could never lose control. Not in front of anyone. Ever. Just now was a perfect example of why.

Clark Kent had let his control slip – for just a fraction of a moment – and he'd set fire to his latest copy. He'd been so deep in thought he hadn't realized that he was literally boring a hole into the small stack of papers sitting neatly on the table in front of him; that is, until they caught on fire.

That couldn't happen with his glasses on; that was why he wore them.

All the time.

Clark picked up the wet cloth he'd used to smother the small fire on his coffee table, hand only slightly steadier than when his copy went up in smoke.

Wiping up the ashes of what was once his next story, he cursed himself for his stupidity. This didn't used to happen so often… these losses in concentration and control.

It was all starting to get to him. His way of life – so crucial to his survival – ate away at him like a cancer, a little more every day. He'd removed people that he cared about from his life like damaged organs in a desperate hope to salvage what he could for their sake, and selfishly, his own.

Now he was alone – a condition he'd worked so hard to achieve. He was cut off from his family, for fear of their own safety.

But on the bad days he thought to himself: was it really worth it? As different as he was, and as much of a loner as he'd always been, he still felt more and more like an outcast each and every day. Now it was almost an unbearable torture to watch the world around him and feel so separated… so _alien_ to the very society to which he belonged, lived in, and loved.

Clark dumped the ashes of his ruined story into the trash, rubbing his face tiredly as he took a seat on the couch. Feeling the prickle of his goatee he was reminded that he should shave soon – at least trim it up – but the simple act was something he dreaded.

He didn't particularly like the goatee, but it changed his look and served its purpose well in that respect. Then, there was the fact that there was only one way for him to shave, and it involved using an unexplainable power to do so.

The ringing of his phone made him start, and lifting his face out of his hands he gave the inanimate object an angry glare. One more ring and he stood up, walked over to the phone and answered.

"Are you watching TV?" his boss asked anxiously, skipping any form of rudimentary greeting. The editor of the Eagle rarely had time for such niceties.

"No," Clark answered unenthusiastically. Why couldn't breaking news happen when he wasn't so damn tired? "Should I be?"

"Should you…" His boss, Andy Miller, nearly exploded. "Kent! How you became a reporter I will never know. Turn it to LNN. I'll wait."

Clark set down the phone and did as Miller asked, turning the station until the familiar LNN logo was visible in the bottom right hand corner of the screen.

Then he froze.

Damn. He truly hated this type of story. Maybe hate was the wrong word… no, he _feared_ it, and wanted nothing to do with anything connected to it.

Yet, Miller was about to make him cover it, he was sure.

The news story sent his heart into a wild, irregular rhythm.

They'd attacked StarLabs; a high tech laboratory based in Metropolis. It had been a long time since they'd hit somewhere big. Long enough to forget the ever-present threat as they waited for the right moment; when we don't expect an attack, and when our collective short-term memory has cast it out of our minds.

He listened for a moment more, then returned to the phone and his impatient boss on the other end of the line. It didn't take Miller long to get to the point… it rarely did.

"You're on the next plane to Metropolis to cover this."

"Sir," Clark began to protest, his free hand becoming a tight fist. "I'm not-"

"Kent, I am not asking you if you want to take it. You _are_ taking it, or you're distributing freshly printed resumes. Take your pick."

"But," he started again, desperate to get out of the assignment, but again was interrupted.

"Look, I know you hate the little green men stories. Once upon a time they were prime for the National Inquisitor, but now they're proven fact, and they're the hottest stories in town. To graduate from nobody to somebody you're going to _have_ to write one eventually. This is a great one; they've stolen from StarLabs' top secret laboratory and even abducted two top scientists."

"Doing God-knows-what to them. Yeah, great."

"Leave your righteous baggage at the door, Kent. You know what I mean. The reporter that discovers what they are here for… what they want from us… will be breaking the story of the century."

His boss still talking in his ear, Clark watched in fascination as LNN played surveillance tapes they'd acquired from StarLabs.

Shadows, quick moving shapes, blurry images. You never saw the aliens clearly, but they certainly didn't look human. Yet they had enough humanoid characteristics. Enough so that you could almost see them as some terrorist organization, and in a sense they were. They just weren't from another part of the world… rather, another part of the universe.

"Story of the century," Clark repeated automatically, still watching the surveillance footage.

"Put some emotion into that, hop on the ten o'clock, and get me that story. Your ticket is waiting in your email." Then, Miller hung up.

Clark stood unmoving for what seemed like minutes, before hanging up his end of the line, dial tone buzzing in his ear.

Turning off the TV he checked his watch. It was six, so he had to get moving if he was going to print his ticket, pack, eat and catch his flight from Denver to Metropolis. I-225 and I-70 to DIA are always a traffic nightmare, and he didn't want to think of the repercussions from his Editor-in-Chief if he missed his flight.

But before he got started he stopped himself. He didn't have to go, did he?

He'd be fired, of course, but he could get another job. Start over again.

Clark sighed. As tempting as the possibility was, he knew it was unrealistic. How many times could he do that before he got a bad reputation for quitting jobs whenever he got a story he didn't like?

How long until someone noticed that he refused to do one type of story in particular?

Writing and being a reporter was all he had, yet if he continued to run he was bound to lose that too. Then what would he have left?

Clark went into his bedroom with new resolve, and packed for his trip to Metropolis.

* * *

It wasn't until he was on the plane that panic set in.

Clark looked around cautiously. Making sure no one was watching, he popped a load of anti-anxiety pills into his mouth and downed them quickly with the glass of water that had been set in front of him a couple minutes earlier. He wasn't quite sure how many he took, but he guessed it was about ten. Leaning back in his seat he closed his eyes and tried to breath. At prescription strength one every eight hours should have sufficed, yet it seemed that only excessive doses helped with his _special_ constitution.

Sometimes he wondered if it wasn't a placebo effect – rather than the drugs themselves – that calmed him, but at this point he was happy to take whatever effect he could get; physical or mental.

Here he was on a plane, flying out to investigate a story he dreaded getting close too. Add to it that he was claustrophobic, and he had a panic attack waiting to happen. Clark opened his eyes when he heard someone talking and realized belatedly that they were talking to him.

The flight attendant looked concerned and when he didn't answer right away, asked, "Are you alright? Do you need a sleeping pill?"

Clearly, she knew a potentially high-maintenance nervous-wreck when she saw one.

Clark flashed an uneasy smile at best, shaking his head. "Maybe another glass of water, though?"

"Of course," she said, leaving his side to get it.

They'd only taken off fifteen minutes ago and he was already feeling parched. He thanked his lucky stars that this wasn't an overseas flight, but these next four hours were going to feel like hell.

He closed his eyes again and willed himself to deepen his quick, shallow breaths.

How he hated flying! It was too bad he fell in love with a profession that required so much of it.

The stewardess came back with his water and he downed it within a few seconds. It caught in his throat and he coughed a little before getting it all down the right pipe.

The man sitting in the seat beside him – a seasoned business traveler by the looks of it – shot him an irritated look before returning to his book.

Right leg tapping anxiously to an unheard rhythm, Clark decided that a distraction might not be a bad idea. Not having the foresight to bring a book with him like his seasoned fellow passenger, he opted for the complimentary material tucked away in the seat pocket in front of him. Pulling out the only magazine that looked remotely interesting – a travel guide – he began to flip through it, forcing himself to stop the quick flutter of pages and read at a normal speed. He was going to need more than a few seconds of distraction.

He stopped on a picture of some sort of beach resort and scanned the ad, badly disguised as an article. When he first started out in the writing business he'd done one of these, and it was when he first realized how much he hated flying. Once he'd done the necessary travel for the guide, he promised himself he'd never do another. Although the anxiety was bad then, he couldn't help but admit that his claustrophobia and nerves had progressively gotten worse over time, not better.

His thoughts drifted from the cut-and-paste stock article in _US Travels_ to his current destination. He'd never been to Metropolis before and he was a bit apprehensive about his visit to the thriving city now. When he was young, growing up in Smallville, he'd wanted to visit the "big city"… but that was before his world changed and reality shifted.

He forced his thoughts back to the present, refusing to dwell in unpleasant memories… or remembrances of _before_. They never did any good, and only served to spoil his mood for the remainder of the day.

Stuffing the magazine back into its place he attempted to relax back into the seat, eyes closed. Placebo effect or not, he could feel the pills starting to ease his frazzled nerves and was thankful for the momentary reprieve.

* * *

Lois was determined to get this story. It would be THE story of the century – hell, the millennium! She'd get the Kerth, the Pulitzer, and a place in history as one of the best investigative journalists of all time.

All she had to do was get herself abducted by aliens.

Sounded easy enough, but it had proved harder than originally anticipated. She had to know exactly what they looked for; the reason why some were taken, and some were left behind.

Certainly, they looked for someone with knowledge; scientists, mathematicians, politicians, people in power. Yet, they seemed to randomly take normal, everyday people as well. Even though she'd only begun this particular train of research, she had yet to uncover any tangible link between the people they were taking and not.

Then there was the matter of who they chose to return, and who they didn't… whether the disappearances meant the people were dead, kept for study, or injured was all up for debate.

Twenty years, and still the most basic questions about their arrival had yet to be answered. It was no wonder: the first fifteen years had mostly been spent in denial of their existence, and they did not include Lois Lane, investigative journalist, on the job.

Crop circles, mutilations, abductions; everyone thought they were the work of hoaxers and tall tales from crazies in Nowheresville. Who knew that they were the precursor of days to come? To an actual, real threat?

Holding a pencil loosely between her fingers, she tapped the eraser-end against the table absentmindedly.

There were some basic facts. One, they needed humans for something. Two, they were an ambivalent and nearly invisible enemy. They were, quite possibly, the greatest threat the human race had yet to see, but hadn't launched a full-scale attack.

Not that Lois was complaining, because deep down she was certain that if the aliens chose to attack their advanced race wouldn't be the ones to lose.

She'd hate them, but they were always the best story in town. Now, they were going to get her the Pulitzer. She just had to find an alien.

Easier said than done…

The phone on her _Daily Planet_ desk rang, and she picked it after the second ring. As she listened to the man on the other end of the line, her lips quirked into a smile, and her hope at finding that alien rose just a bit higher.

* * *

Clark Kent had done enough travel to know one really couldn't expect the best accommodations at rock bottom prices, but this took that expectation down to an all new low. The room at the Apollo was not what one would call spacious, clean, comfortable or well decorated.

Was that a pay phone?

Shaking his head, he set his suitcase down near the door, not wanting to bring it in any further than necessary.

He knew the paper he worked for wasn't rolling in dough… but was this really the best they could do?

The "room" was a twenty foot by twenty foot box with unfinished cement walls and floors, and no windows.

There was no bathroom in the room, and as he'd checked into the hotel the seedy little man at the front desk had informed him of the community bathroom down the hall.

The Mulu caves in Borneo offered better accommodations than this.

Sliding off his glasses, he pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly before replacing them. Just the trip here exhausted him, much less having to stay in this hole covering the one story he didn't want to touch with a ten foot pole.

A sudden urge to call his parents in Smallville and just tell them everything – cast off the weight he'd been carrying alone for years – was almost painful. Their advice and wisdom had always done wonders to ease his frayed nerves and the temptation was nearly impossible to suppress.

Nearly, because the urge was held in check by one feeling that was stronger than all the others; fear. He feared what they would say, what they would think, what they would do… and worst of all, he wouldn't be able to hold it against them.

Better they think he left to explore the world, not to hide the secret of his freakishness.

He hadn't talked to them in over nine years; it would be exactly ten next month. Oh, once in a blue moon he used to send them postcards from places he'd traveled to let them know he was alive and well. The first couple years after he'd left, while in college, he'd even written a few letters. They had written every week at first, and every other week from his sophomore year until graduation.

He didn't attend the walk during graduation, didn't invite them to come up, and didn't come to visit before he set off in search of a job – if he was honest he knew he was in search of more than that. He also knew he'd hurt them by his actions, yet his fear of something more horrifying than disappointment shining in their eyes kept him from doing something about it.

No, he thought it much better for them to think of him in resentment for never calling or visiting, rather than disgust or fear for his frightening differences.

So almost immediately he dismissed the compulsion to call them, just as he always did.

Instead, he called his boss and thanked him for the _lovely_ accommodations.

He returned to the bed and sat down heavily. Just as he was leaning back to relax a confident triple-knock echoed through the room, causing him to shoot back up abruptly.

His forehead crinkled in confusion, and he was at a loss as to who could possibly be at the door. Having only just arrived, he figured it had to be one of the staff… but even that seemed unlikely. This wasn't the Beverly Hilton after all, and he doubted a maid was here to put a mint on his pillow.

When he opened the door, what he found standing in front of him was surprising; a beautiful, no-nonsense brunette woman – around his age – in a navy blue business suit. One eyebrow rose inquisitively as she looked him up and down.

"So, I hear you can lead me to an alien."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

His face must have paled considerably because her eyebrow inched up even higher as she shot him a sly smile. "So, can I come in or are you hiding an alien in that box you call a room?"

Still a bit shell shocked from her words – and embarrassed to boot – Clark blinked slowly, opening the door wider to let her in despite all common sense telling him not to.

Entering, she took all of three steps before finding herself in the middle of the room. Turning back towards him, she seemed eager to get to the point. "Well?"

Closing the door he couldn't help but be a bit shocked that this woman had managed to render him speechless in seconds. He turned to face her, opening his mouth to speak, but, having no idea where to start, abruptly shut it. Instead, he opted for a thoroughly confused – and silent – gaze.

To her, it must have looked like she'd spoken Klingon to him.

"What? Are you a mute?" she asked sarcastically, glancing around the tiny room with a small grimace.

She clearly didn't think much of him, having already made her judgment in a few second's time. But why should she? Here he was looking tired and disheveled, staying at possibly the most disgraceful hotel in Metropolis.

"Alien?" he finally managed, feeling like he'd arrived late to the conversation.

Her wandering eyes returned to lock on his, and he swallowed heavily, willing himself to calm down. Her scrutiny was causing sweat to begin beading on his forehead already.

She didn't – couldn't – possibly know… could she?

No one knew.

"Yeah," she answered after a moment, her face all business. "Word on the street is you know where I can find an alien."

She didn't know; not about him. It was a relief, even if the origin of her tip was still worrying. He had to force himself from breathing out an audible sigh, and he could feel his tense body relax a little at the revelation.

"What street?" he asked, attempting to reflect a little sarcasm back. With a small amount of satisfaction he watched her lips twitch, as if holding back an amused smile.

The mask was back in place a second later. "Cute, but I'm not buying. My source is solid and unless you're unusually warm on this cool autumn night…" She gestured to his perspiring forehead. "You're nervous."

"Well it's not every day a complete stranger barges in at eight o' clock at night and accuses me of harboring an alien. I don't suppose you have a name?"

This woman was doing her best to interrogate him, and he didn't even know who she was.

He offered his hand, and she took it after only a moment of hesitation. "Lois Lane."

Clark stiffened; the dwindling nerves he'd been feeling before kicking back into high gear.

Oh, he'd heard of Lois Lane, star reporter for the Daily Planet. He quickly dropped the handshake before he found himself squeezing too tightly.

He wasn't star struck. Rather, if she had a source that pointed to him as having knowledge of an alien, that was bad news. She would be relentless in her quest for information. Worse still, she'd caught him when he was tired and unprepared.

No doubt she knew this based on his appearance alone and was planning to use it to her full advantage.

Becoming aware of the awkward silence that had settled between them after dropping her hand, he introduced himself. "I'm Clark Kent."

No recognition on her part, which was no surprise. He was a small time hack in comparison to her… hell, in comparison to any respectable big city journalist for that matter. It wasn't like he'd spent the years after college making a name for himself.

"Now that the introductions are out of the way, are you going to answer my question?"

Clark stepped away from the door, opting instead to lean against a bare wall a few feet away. He forced a calming breath, knowing it was crucial that he seem honest and confident in his answers, otherwise she'd latch on to his discomfort and never let go.

A jolt of sound cut into their conversation and whatever else she was starting to say. Clark couldn't help but wince at the assault to his senses, and his face contorted in pain.

Hands instantly to his ears he quickly excused himself, barely registering her confused and concerned features as her eyes followed him as he left the room and made his way toward the bathroom down the hall.

He was in too much pain to be thankful that the bathroom was currently unoccupied, and closed the door behind him, leaning against it heavily.

He tried to concentrate and force his hearing back to a normal level. Unfortunately something major was going on nearby in Metropolis – though what exactly he couldn't make out through the bombardment of sound – and a piercing alarm dominated everything he heard.

He slid down the door slowly, coming to rest on the floor with his ears covered and eyes closed. His efforts to thrust out the bombardment of sound were thwarted by the stress of his travel and exhaustion.

'_Come on, you've been able to do this since you were eleven,' _he thought, frustrated with his inability to control his own body. When he was in Kansas and his powers developed he'd taught himself how to suppress them almost instantly; he'd had to.

All the mystery surrounding the strange alien visitors made everyone paranoid, edgy, and searching for any answers they could find. The aliens, still faceless beings that were undoubtedly present, yet hopelessly invisible.

They committed malicious acts against the human race and performed experiments on fellow townsfolk… so what would people think of a boy who could pick up his dad's tractor and start a grass fire with his eyes? Hiding had been a matter of survival.

He'd _almost_ succeeded entirely.

"_They'll dissect you like a frog, you know."_

God, how he hated remembering the older man say that. Eyes suddenly open; they didn't see the dirty bathroom around him. Instead, they saw a memory that haunted him whenever he let it.

He'd been fourteen and caught red-handed; a little baby raccoon had been his downfall.

Standing in the thick mud embankment that dropped into Cattle Creek, a downpour of rain soaking him through as he clutched a drenched and shivering creature close to his chest and watched the strong current rush by. This season had been unusually wet, and the past week even wetter. Never had he seen the creek have more than three feet of water, yet that depth had doubled with this last storm; one which showed no signs of stopping anytime soon.

No doubt, the quick rise in water had been responsible for the tiny raccoon becoming stranded on a precarious log in the middle of the flooded creek, and when the log had finally broken loose from whatever had kept it in its spot Clark had acted without thinking.

Except he still wasn't sure exactly _what _he'd done.

Within a few seconds he had managed to get across the torrent of water, retrieve the raccoon, and find himself back on the embankment.

Logically, he knew it made no sense. He should have been caught up in the powerful rush of water, or at the very least fighting against the current toward the raccoon. Yet here he was standing in the exact spot he'd been seconds before, with only one difference; now he had the shivering and soaked baby raccoon in his hands.

Breathing heavily, he stepped back unconsciously, stumbling over a rock as he did so. A steady hand righted him before he fell, and he looked up into the face of the neighbor whose land he was currently trespassing on… in the middle of the night.

Clark's eyes widened as he rebalanced himself and moved out of the older man's grip.

Mr. Irig hadn't seen what he'd done to get the raccoon, had he?

The answer was written on his face. Wayne Irig looked shocked, but what chilled him to his bones was the other emotion he saw… fear. He'd never forget that look.

Wayne Irig quickly diverted his eyes to the raccoon, and then motioned for Clark to hand it over.

Stroking the creature's head once, Clark handed the animal over, then looked back up at Wayne uncertainly.

"You shouldn't be here," Wayne said, turning his back to him and beginning to walk away. "Come on. I'll drive you home."

Not knowing what else to do, he found himself following Wayne back to his old blue pick-up truck parked a few yards away, still running.

The shiver that ran down his spine had absolutely nothing to do with the cold wind and pouring rain.

Once they'd gotten inside the truck, Wayne wrapped the wet raccoon with a spare sweater in his cab before returning it to Clark's care, and starting back the Kent farmhouse.

The drive back started out silent, and there was a thickness in the air that couldn't be contributed to Clark's trespassing in the dark of night; he'd often found himself on the Irig property in the past and Wayne never complained before. He never did any damage on the property, and usually only went to explore the old creek.

Daring a peek at Wayne, he noticed the tightness of the man's face before turning his gaze to the road in front of them, barely visible in the rain. Clark wiped a dripping wet sleeve against his glasses; a weak attempt at wiping away the raindrops on his lenses that obscured his vision. Needless to say, it did little good but create long streaks where the spots were previously.

"Clark," Wayne finally said, his voice oddly heavy. "Whatever you did out there tonight… people 'round here wouldn't understand. They might even… well, they might even be frightened."

His eyes didn't start to tear up until he heard Wayne say, "I am," under his breath. It was so quiet, he was sure he wasn't meant to hear, and Wayne had no idea that he had.

Clark swallowed hard and looked down at the raccoon. The creature was looking up at him, its eyes big and scared.

Wayne continued, seeming a little choked up. "They'll dissect you like a frog, you know? If… if they found out."

Clark said nothing, still looking at the raccoon to hide his teary eyes. What Wayne had said wasn't a totally foreign thought to him, but to hear it out loud from someone else made his heartbeat quicken and hope of any sort of acceptance of his powers seem like impossibility.

Sighing, Clark closed his eyes again, this time from the pain of the memory and not pain from the sounds that had assaulted his system.

He didn't know if he was an alien or not – he certainly hoped the answer was the latter – but he _was_ different. In this paranoid world that was enough to be his undoing.

At least the memory had distracted him from the siren, allowing the sounds to once again fade into the city. He sucked in a lungful of air, and noticed that his ears were ringing as his senses still reeled from the overload.

Of all the times for this to happen, while an information-hungry reporter was in his hotel room was not one of the better moments.

His grasp on control had slipped during his brief stint in New York. Even now he couldn't say why, though he was sure he could think up a few reasons if he put his mind to it. At the time he'd chalked it up to the events, the unaccustomed noise of the big city, and ever-mounting weight of the secret he constantly hid from the world.

Back under control, he stood, turned on the tap and splashed his face with cold water. He stared at his face in the mirror – his entire appearance screamed exhaustion and depression – and wondered how much longer he could do this before suffering a nervous breakdown, or simply losing his mind altogether.

Clark patted his face dry with a paper towel and tossed it in the overflowing trashcan beside the sink. He had to get back to Ms. Lane before she started to get suspicious of his peculiar departure… provided she wasn't already.

Opening the door, he found a man waiting in the hall who didn't look happy.

"Hey man, trip in your own room, will ya. Other people have to use the can, ya know?"

Clark frowned at the man's assumption but stepped aside silently and let him have his turn, before making his way back to his room.

He really had to move to another hotel, even if it was on his own dime. This was ridiculous!

Reaching his room he tried to open the door, noticing the resistance immediately. He'd locked himself out. Cursing himself for not grabbing the key in his rush out the room, he knocked feeling embarrassed once again.

The door opened with a quick jerk, and there stood Ms. Lane, squawking beeper in hand. She shut it off, and then looked at him almost reproachfully. "I've got to go." Her look softened, almost unperceivable in the dim light of the hotel, and Clark wondered if he was just imagining it. "You all right? You look pretty pale."

He nodded. "Migraine," he said by way of explanation, hoping she left it at that. He figured it wasn't a total lie; his head was still pounding.

"Must have been a whopper. Look, I have to run but..." she stepped around him and out into the hall. "This isn't over, Kent!"

A weary smile passed over his lips. "I wouldn't dream of it."

She paused for a moment, and then frowned. "I want to know what you know." She took out her wallet and pulled out a business card. "Call me. If you don't, I'll find you anyway!"

Then she was gone. Damn. That woman was like a typhoon. If her focus hadn't been trained on him, he'd be admiring her determination now rather than drowning in worry.

No doubt there was a big story that caused her to run out like that, and it probably had something to do with what he'd heard a few minutes earlier.

He should go too. But instead he dropped his tired body onto the bed, thinking of Lois Lane and her mysterious tip.

The fact that she'd come here looking for an alien was concerning… very concerning. It seemed like she hadn't known who he was until he'd introduced himself, which meant she most likely was just given his location. Also, she'd only accused him of knowing of an alien, not being an alien.

But who had told her he _could_ lead her to an alien, and why?

His glasses slipped up above his nose as he rubbed his eyes wearily. Is that really what he thought of himself? Just because he could do things others couldn't didn't automatically make him an alien, did it?

There were other explanations…

Yet there was a nagging, persistent voice in his mind that insisted that that was one of them, and it was the explanation he feared the most.

Shouting could be heard from the adjacent room as he closed his eyes in thought, and it was loud enough that one didn't need super-human hearing to be aware of it.

He groaned; by morning he was out of here.

Another knock on the door made him wonder if he'd ever get any sort of peace tonight.

Answering, he found the clerk that had checked him in.

"You got a call."

Clark glanced at his phone, realizing it probably couldn't receive inbound calls. Nodding, he followed the man to the front desk and picked up the offered receiver. "Hello?"

"Kent!" His editor, naturally. "I had Eddie plant a little seed for you."

Eddie was the office gopher, which made Clark wonder what exactly Eddie could have done to help his story. "What?"

"You can expect a visit from Lois Lane soon. Heard of her?"

Realization dawned quickly, and he gripped the phone as tightly as he dared while he scowled into the receiver. "You didn't."

"She thinks you got some inside track on finding an alien," he chuckled. "With any luck and some creativity on your part, you should be able to get a great story out of her. It will be a good opportunity for you to show me what you've got in you, Kent."

"I hope you're not suggesting what I think you are."

Clark's relief at the source of the "tip" was stamped out by his editor's actions and demands.

"She has contacts, is familiar with the city and has undoubtedly done a mountain's worth of homework. Besides..." his editor paused, then said a little quieter, "it's not as if it's a total lie, is it?"

Clark suddenly felt as if the hotel lobby was tilting and swaying, and he put one hand on the reception desk to ground himself. "W-What?" he stuttered.

"Use it. Make me proud."

His editor hung up. Clark felt sick to his stomach. His editor knew… _something_, and clearly wasn't above blackmail if it meant getting a great story.

Was this really the type of paper he'd signed on to? The thought of stealing Lois' story, and using all her hard work to get a headline was appalling.

He hung up the receiver; needing desperately to think. It was too bad his mind felt so clouded and jumbled from the day's events; he doubted he'd come up with any answers in his current state. Perhaps sleep was what he needed – something he hadn't done in over three days.

Just as he was heading up the stairs, the lights went out.

"Shit!" the guy at the front desk said angrily – the loss in power apparently interrupting his television experience.

Clark would have chalked up the outage to faulty wiring in this hell-hole of a hotel but for the _complete_ darkness outside as well. He walked over to the storefront windows in the Apollo lobby and peered out. There was no light up or down the busy street, except for car headlights. It seemed that the entire block was out.

Another ambulance siren went off nearby. He cringed instantly, but this time the siren kept itself at a respectable decibel level, neglecting to set off his sensitive hearing.

Something big was going down.

He rushed up the stairs and back into his room, grabbing a notepad, pencil, and disposable camera. After changing into something a little more professional than his casual traveling clothes, and cleaning himself up a little, he set out to find out just what that big thing going down was.

Sleep would have to wait a little longer.


	3. Chapter 3

A big thank you to my beta, Iolanthe!

~*~

**Chapter 3**

In theory, rushing out to cover a story sounded great. Reality sunk in as soon as he stood on the cracking sidewalk outside the Apollo trying to hail a cab, and realizing he had no idea where to find the front-page headline that Ms. Lane had clearly rushed out to cover.

Damn.

Viewing the breaking news on a local station, checking with sources, or starting from a tip in the newsroom was not a possibility. He was on his own, in more ways than one.

He raised a hand as an available taxi came into view about two blocks down the street, and stepped towards the curb. He watched as his target approached slowly, stopping at each intersection for the blinking red lights.

Adjusting his glasses in nervous anticipation, he waved his hand a bit as the taxi neared, only to completely still as a city-hardened twenty-something girl stepped right out into the street – in front of the taxi – about twenty feet in front of him. She waved her hand almost as an afterthought as the taxi screeched to an abrupt halt.

Clark sighed as the woman jumped in the cab, and she and his hope for a taxi drove past.

Big city life! If one needed to risk being run over to hail a cab, it gave him yet another reason to avoid big urban centers like Metropolis whenever possible.

He made his way toward the street corner, thinking he'd have a better visual on any approaching taxis. Around nine o'clock in a big city like this, he wouldn't have to wait too long.

It was a minute after positioning himself on the corner of Vine and 105th that he began to feel an unease settle around him like a dense ocean fog. There was absolutely no reason for it; at least none that he could tell. The surrounding streets were relatively empty, save for some passers-by here and there and the random homeless person tucked away in an alley or on an out-of-the-way slab of concrete.

To describe his sudden feeling of unease was impossible because he didn't understand it himself. What do you feel when you meet a person and look into their eyes for the first time? Shake their hand? Listen to them speak? What is that sensation?

The nearest he could come to describing it was to say it was a kind of intuition. He'd felt it before in various ways – as many people had – yet his held an immediacy to it that he couldn't explain. It was as if his intuition was _certain_, and trying to tell him to stop being such a lunk-head and listen; there was something he needed to do.

This was certainly not the first time he'd felt a strong intuition, but it always came down to one question; listen to _what_? That had always been the problem for him. This intuition was only a feeling with the vaguest of clues and no real details.

Intuition said "_something's off_", not "_there's a woman being mugged on 10__th__ and Simms Avenue who's about to be shot_".

After watching cars go by for about five minutes, he spotted another available taxi. This time he stepped to the curb and let out a shrill whistle as he waved his right arm, hoping that his message was clear enough to be seen this time around.

With no intense competition, he managed to successfully hail the taxi and it stopped in front of him.

Jumping inside, he settled himself in as the driver asked, "Where to?"

Where to indeed?

A click of a button made Clark take note of the fare as it began to steadily tick away.

Sad thing was, he didn't know. He tried to shrug off his edginess as he attempted to decide on a worthwhile destination, but try as he might the unease seemed there to stay… at least for now.

The driver spoke some rapid fire Spanish into the radio, and received silence in response. Clark's sluggish brain interpreted slower than usual, and only after the driver put down the radio in irritation did he realize the cabbie had been asking if anyone could hear him. The driver shot him an impatient look through the rear-view mirror as Clark sat in indecision.

"Star Labs," he said, coming to a decision.

Might was well start from the beginning and see where the trail leads.

As they pulled away from the curb and made what Clark was pretty sure was an illegal U-turn, his intuitive unease began to decrease. He sunk a bit further into the seat as the excitement of the evening's events quickly drained away and left him with the exhaustion he'd felt earlier.

He shouldn't be doing this. He was too tired – mentally – from his trip, Lane's visit, and his editor's set-up. That didn't bode well for any reporter, least of all him, with so much to hide and so little experience in the city of Metropolis.

The situation spelled trouble with a capital T.

Yet here he sat, watching as the building passed outside the window, doing this anyway. It was against his better judgment, against his normal _modus operandi_, and against what any person who'd even gotten an hour's sleep in the last four days would declare sane.

He closed his eyes and rubbed them tiredly, then returned his gaze to the city as the cab slowed to yet another stop. Windows, street lamps, traffic lights; they were all still dark.

This was more than a little power outage affecting a couple blocks; this was a good chunk of the city being affected. For all he knew, the entire city of Metropolis could be without power… and if that were the case, this was no minor event.

It had taken a while to reach Star Labs. With all the lights out the entire length of the journey and the distance to travel – at least fifteen miles – it took a good hour. They'd hit some areas with heavy traffic in the heart of downtown which had slowed them down significantly, but in a way Clark was grateful. Not only did he get a better idea of the extent of Metropolis affected, but the time also allowed him a chance to unwind from the inexplicable edginess he'd felt early outside the Apollo Hotel.

Oddly enough, Star Labs was completely quiet. There were no scenes of mayhem or panic or chaos as the taxi pulled into the vacant parking lot.

He hated to admit that he was a little bit relieved.

"Seventy-two, fifty."

Clark's shocked gaze quickly snapped from Star Labs to the driver. He'd lost track of the tally a half hour ago. Barely containing an exclamation at the high cost, Clark grabbed his wallet from his breast-pocket and handed the driver a company credit card, courtesy of the Eagle. No doubt, the fare must have been triple the cost of his room.

"Cash only," the man said, waving away the credit card.

Frowning, Clark pointed at the credit card swipe clearly visible in the front of the cab. "This is all I have. What's wrong with that?"

"Broken," the man grumbled again, not bothering to spare him a look back.

"I can write you a check," Clark said –even he had to admit his tone was a bit sarcastic. The driver grumbled again before finally accepting the credit card, scribbling down the necessary information to be run through later.

Now past ten, the air had gotten cooler. Temperature never seemed to bother him like it bothered most people but he could still feel the change as he stepped out into the Star Labs parking lot.

Star Labs was located towards the outskirts of the city, no doubt due to the amount of real estate it required. He heard the taxi pull away behind him as he surveyed the two-story building in front of him. From the outside it looked very much like a medical facility. Yet, the place looked more abandoned than he had expected, especially after what had transpired earlier with the kidnappings and break-in.

There were also no lights.

That surprised him. A high-tech lab like this surely had - and required – a back-up generator, much like a hospital. It made him wonder if their back-up had failed as well, or if it just didn't supply electricity to anything he could currently see.

Approaching the front entrance he leaned into the darkened glass door and peered inside. It was pitch-dark. He was sure that if his eyesight was normal he wouldn't be able to see a thing. Even now, what he could see was shadowed in dark hues.

Sighing, he stepped back, noticing the electronic door lock for the first time. After a moment he tried the door at human strength, not really expecting anything to happen, but to his surprise the door opened.

Now he was almost certain that any back-up generators Star Labs had were no longer functioning. The power failure seemed to have disabled the security system… but surely, such a high-tech, high-risk facility would have some sort of failsafe?

He let go of the door, and it eased shut once more. Now, he was getting nervous. Didn't they have security guards on staff, especially after the kidnapping and theft?

None of this made sense. The edginess returned.

Stepping away from the door, he wondered what he should do. The lab clearly held within it things that could be a national security risk… viruses and weapons technology that could kill thousands or millions of people. He had to call the police, but while he found the nearest pay phone someone could enter – or for that matter, exit – the building.

Could he…? No!

Squeezing his eyes shut, he bowed his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose. No, he couldn't even contemplate welding the door shut. It would not only be impossible to explain to the police, but it would probably do little good. There had to be more than one way in or out.

There was a phone at the front desk; perhaps his best bet was to see if it worked and call the authorities. Explaining how he came to be there and what he did for a living wouldn't be hard.

Once again, he reached for the handle and was shocked to see a reflection other than his own in the glass. He spun around only to find… nothing behind him.

His palms began to sweat as he looked around more thoroughly… still, he saw no one. Not only had he seen no one, he'd heard and smelled no one either.

He couldn't be _that_ tired, could he?

Turning back to the door he felt a little less sure of himself and his plan than he had a few seconds earlier.

Wiping his hands against the side of his pants, he grasped the handle again and pulled the door open. He stepped inside and shut the door quietly, painfully aware of every sound he made in the still silence of the seemingly abandoned lab.

Picking up the phone, he was thankful to hear a dial tone on the other end. He didn't know the local police station's number, or even what precinct would cover this portion of Metropolis, so he dialed information and got what he needed.

After a few rings someone picked up and directed his call to a Detective Henderson.

Placed on hold, he sat down in the chair behind the reception desk and waited. Staring outside he thought of the reflection he'd seen behind him. He hadn't really seen a face or any details… it had almost been like a shadow.

Could it have been his imagination? He tapped the desk nervously with his free index finger. It was hard to trust that he'd seen it when he was so strung-out… if he had to swear to it, he didn't think he could.

Then again, when they'd played the Star Labs surveillance tapes on LNN it had been the same –

"Hello?" a voice said on the other end, and Clark recognized it as the man he'd spoken to before. "You still there?"

Clark found that he had to clear his throat before he answered. "Yeah, I am."

"It'll be a couple more minutes. He's wrapping up with someone right now."

"Fine," Clark said, shifting his gaze back to outside as he was put on hold again.

No, he'd never seen the aliens on LNN… they had just been blurry shadows on a grainy black and white tape.

Bushes rustled in the breeze beyond the glass door, and as Clark stared outside he noticed just how desolate the dark cityscape looked.

A crunch of shoe against gravel made him tighten his grip on the phone and subconsciously stiffen-up in the chair. He stopped tapping his fingers; the sound now seeming impossibly loud.

"This is Detective Henderson."

Clark winced, pulling the phone away. Closing his eyes he once again forced his hearing to normal level before putting the phone back to his ear.

"My name is Clark Kent. I'm at Star Labs right now. I think someone should come down here. The place is deserted, and unlocked."

"What?! That's impossible," Henderson said, disbelieving. "I have men down there now."

Clark's eyebrows rose and he once again looked outside, as if cops would spontaneously appear in the empty parking lot. "Have you talked to them recently?"

There was a pause, and Clark thought he might be checking the time. "Almost an hour ago."

"Well, I don't see anyone here. No security guards, no cops, and no cars in the parking lot. I'm sitting at the reception desk. I think the power outage messed up the door locks."

"They have back-up power."

"Not tonight," Clark contradicted.

There was another long pause, and Henderson's voice became muffled as he directed his order to someone in the precinct. "Call Peters, now."

Henderson's voice became clear again a second later. "This better not be a joke. If it is, I'll make sure you take some time to enjoy our accommodations. We have a lovely crossbar view out every window."

"It's not."

"While we check up on our unit why don't you tell me who you are?"

Clark understood what he was asking. "I'm a reporter for the Eagle."

Henderson swore under his breath. "Of course you're a reporter," he said gruffly. "Never heard of you."

It was obvious that Henderson didn't want to believe the abandoned lab story. Who could blame him? It would mean he had cops on duty missing and a potentially serious security situation.

"Neither has most of the population."

"You a hack?"

Clark frowned but tried not to let if affect his tone of voice as he answered. "Well, we all have to start somewhere."

"Yeah. Well, I'm going to start by sending a new unit down to Star Labs. Stay where you are until we arrive."

"Yeah," Clark said, before hanging up the phone. He had every intention of doing exactly what he'd been told; wait at the front desk until the police arrived.

However, things don't always go according to plan.

He heard movement inside the lab after three minutes of waiting in absolute silence. How far away it was coming from was hard to say, mainly because his hearing seemed to be taking on a life of its own. It had to be the lack of sleep, but it was becoming increasingly hard to distinguish between close-up and far-away sounds.

He stood up from the chair slowly, wanting to make as little noise as possible. The possibilities of whom or what could be making the noise were vast. Unfortunately, few of those possibilities made him feel better inside.

As it turned out, he didn't have to go too far. Clark walked down the length of one white, sterile hall, made a right and found the source of the sound emanating from the third room on the left.

Slowing his approach, he stopped beside the door, careful not to step in front of the small glass window that looked into the room. Listening carefully, he took a deep breath and willed himself to look through the little window.

As it turned out, just as he gathered the courage to see who was in the room whoever or whatever was inside decided to come out. The result was a face full of door, and a very startled… woman?!

Clark instinctively covered his face right after the door hit him, more out of reflex than any sort of pain, and quickly noticed that his glasses were broken.

"Kent?"

Clark dropped his hand and squinted through his broken lenses, though why he bothered he couldn't say. He didn't need to see her to know that it was Lois Lane, the woman who had barreled through the door like a freight train and – had he not been seemingly invulnerable – would have certainly broken his nose with the impact.

"Ms. Lane?" he asked. His hand nervously fiddled with the frame of his glasses, pushing them firmly up his nose despite the fact that he couldn't see squat out of them now that they were broken.

The metal door closed behind her. Noticing the large dent he began to feel a bit panicked. She was already going to be suspicious enough without seeing that too.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, letting his surprise at finding her show through as he finally let his hand drop from his face.

Looking a bit shell-shocked, she blinked at him a moment, nonplussed, before answering, "I'm a reporter," as if that was a perfectly logical answer for any reason she might be anywhere at any time.

Then she straightened up a bit, finding her footing after being surprised, and threw the question back at him. "Maybe that's a question I should be asking you. First I hear you know where an alien is, and now I find you sneaking around Star Labs. If that isn't a reason to be suspicious I guess pigs really do fly and play the harp."

He was just about to answer when the confusion hit. "The harp?"

She frowned and waved the question away, turning on her heel and making her way further into the facility. "You know, like those creepy cherubs?"

Still thoroughly confused, he began to follow her. He didn't have to follow for long. She abruptly stopped and turned to face him again, and he stopped short.

"So, what **are** you doing here?"

"Investigating," he stated matter-of-factly, seeing no reason to hide the fact.

She studied him for a moment, before crossing her arm over her chest and cocking an eyebrow disbelievingly. "Oh?"

_Clank. Clank. Thud._

He snapped his head around toward the sound, coming from what seemed like the next corridor. He turned towards Lois to find that she had also heard the sound. She turned towards him briefly, eyes large, before rushing down the corridor towards the sound. He caught himself before he called out to her. Biting his tongue, he found himself rushing after the crazy woman without a second thought.

It only took him a few seconds to catch up with her, and they rounded the corner together. Neither one was quite prepared for what they found down the length of that next corridor.


End file.
